


will you hold on for just a minute / will you hold on while i catch my breath

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hand Feeding, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: How’s this for human. How’s this for redemption – Jon pulling his heart out of his chest through his throat so he has to keep it in his mouth instead.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	will you hold on for just a minute / will you hold on while i catch my breath

**Author's Note:**

> i was kinda on the edge about the canon non-compliant tag. this is set in season 4 which i havent finished yet, and it's absolutely not compliant w/ canon b/c they barely interact in canon in that season (at least the first half) and i know this is like, a major plot thing lolz. i just figured thats the point in canon it fits the best in. ig this is like. au where instead of going w/ the lonely martin clings to jon instead. 
> 
> uni has made me illiterate i havent written in a year i am sorry to be incoherent please take this. 
> 
> title is from [baltimore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gvaMg8ioOA) by the extra glenns, which is very joncore
> 
> consider listening to this [martin playlist](https://playmoss.com/en/laflams/playlist/and-when-you-see-him-you-ll-know) i made on playmoss, and perhaps also the [jon one](https://playmoss.com/en/laflams/playlist/arenat-you-tired-tryin-to-fill-that-void) also as well

Jon in his office with the door ajar. Just the slightest bit. Not enough to be inviting but just barely enough that entering doesn’t feel like a disturbance. Martin brushes his shoulder against the doorframe on the way in. The door barely creaks on its hinges, Jon barely looks up at him, the air barely shifts. Barely. Barely. Everything feels like it’s barely holding onto this reality, this liminal space. 

“Tea?”

There’s nothing on his desk except for his tape recorder. He’s tucked all of the files back into their places for the night. Martin has a weird flashing thought of tucking in Jon inside a filing cabinet. Archivist, archived. He holds back a smile. His heart lurches in his chest with strange longing.

“Not right now, but - thank you.” 

Martin bounces on his feet a little bit. In his hand he has an orange. Just from the kitchen. Just in case. Round yellow orange. Fragrant and ripe. Heart pounding in his chest for no real reason.

“Orange?” 

Startling, he guesses, this suggestion, this offer. Jon looks up at him properly, surprise pulling his face into a tired grimace, something flickering in his eyes. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Martin takes the two steps from the door to his desk. He’s had enough practice by now, crossing this distance, step by step. The way his feet find their place on the floor both times they land. It's somewhat surprising there aren’t permanent shoe marks by now. 

Jon goes to grab the orange from his hand. Martin pulls his hand back almost without realizing. Jon’s face spreads into confusion.

“Martin?”

“Just - let me?”

Instinctual. And then there’s a look on Jon’s face that Martin doesn’t know how to decode - like: confusion; embarrassment; shame; guilt.

“You can say no.”

He almost expects him to say no. Taking care of him is a full time job now. Can’t do anything for him. He’s all guilt and shame and sadness and crying in his office when he thinks no one can tell. Martin can tell. Always.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods. 

And then Martin’s methodically taking the fruit apart, nectar dripping onto his hands where the membrane comes undone with the point of his nail, jagged edge catching a corner, the soft flesh ripe and damp and sweet. He barely notices the juice running down his wrist; uncovering the insides ribbon of peel by ribbon of peel at a time. The fleshy insides. The scent of fresh sweet citrus, white membrane under his fingernails. 

Pulling the pieces apart. Halves and then quarters, and then eights, counting the interlocking pieces as they come apart. Jon looking with his mouth slightly open, just the slightest amount, his top front teeth barely visible, like he’s not aware of it, just watching. Martin can’t look him in the eyes. 

Piece by piece. Deconstructed orange, laid out on the desk in a careful semicircle, and suddenly he feels a little silly. It’s just an orange. Hardly an offering worth celebrating. 

Jon starts to say something. “Shh,” says Martin, the end of the instinctive sound rising into a question, his hand already reaching towards Jon.

Trembling hand to trembling lips. Jon’s teeth and warm, soft mouth, Martin’s filling with saliva at the smell of citrus, the look on his stupid beautiful face, this ache of a wordless feeling, heart thumping in his chest all the way to his fingertips. 

“Martin,” Jon mumbles around a mouthful of fruit, like he wants to say something else but this is the only word he has any confidence in, “Martin.”

“No –“

Something ragged and raw. Something making his breath catch in his throat. Like his heart is about to explode in his chest. Like there’s something trying to crawl out of him through the mouth. Something big and heavy and light and spindly, something with so many legs, something with it’s arms lodged in his rib cage. Something stupid and sweet and real and final in this moment. 

“Please,” Martin says, “please let me.” 

He’s not sure when he started crying. Nothing dramatic. No big theatrics, no big heaving sobs or freely flowing tears - just a few teardrops slipping from his eyes without him noticing, without him realizing, a ball in his chest, a lump in his throat. Jon makes a face like he’s in pain and it makes a kick of despair shoot through his body like he’s been set on fire. 

It’s so stupid. This is so stupid. This shouldn’t hurt. He shouldn’t be doing this in the first place - what a weird thing to do. Just offer him a cup of tea. Just offer him the orange. Let him have it and then leave. People don’t do this. Jon’s going to hate him after this, or if not hate then feel weird about this, avoid him for weeks, never talk about this again. Maybe never talk to him again.

And yet he can’t stop. Slice after slice, Martin’s fingers occasionally making contact with the sharp of his teeth by accident, recoiling slightly at the touch, Jon taking surprised hitched breaths. 

How’s this for human. How’s this for redemption – Jon pulling his heart out of his chest through his throat so he has to keep it in his mouth instead. Martin peeling oranges and hand feeding the slices to him; Jon eating them slowly, like he’s worried Martin will reach in and take them from him, keeping them in his mouth until he’s sure he won’t. 

Sticky hand cupping his sharp cheek. If it bothers Jon he doesn’t show it, his breathing going shallow. Neither of them looks at the other. _The prayer of going nowhere going nowhere._ Someone said that. Someone wrote that. Martin’s not praying. He won’t. 

Jon slowly reaches his hand over Martin’s. It’s warm and steady, his rapid pulse, the soft inside of his wrist to the top of Martin’s wrist, the contact a slow plea from his pulse – _I exist. I’m here. I’m human. Please stay._

**Author's Note:**

> the person who wrote "the prayer of going nowhere going nowhere" was in fact richard siken. the poem is called "the torn up road" and its really sad. 
> 
> im on tumblr at blqckwoods.tumblr.com in case anyone would like to make fun of the fact that i cant write canon compliant fic for the life of me


End file.
